It's Not Over
by FootNoodle
Summary: Destiny is unpredictable and uncontrollable. There is no stopping it, or changing it, or knowing it. As long as you take it as it comes, you should survive...maybe.
1. Chapter 1

**_This story could go in any direction. It stays somewhat true to plot in the beginning, but I have a knack for going absolutely crazy with my ideas. Bear with me and you'll survive. Thanks for reading!_**

She was tired, worn down from the mix of fighting and running she'd had to do on her way back to Whiterun. She'd lost track of how many missions she'd done for the Companions now. She'd recognized that they'd begun to get softer on her a few weeks ago, when Aela had stopped her before she'd left on a troll extermination task. She'd hesitated before saying, "I've heard you might actually be stronger than you look…we should hunt together sometime."

She'd felt warm at the near compliment. She'd been trying so hard to prove herself, throwing herself around at every whim and fancy any companion gave her. The only person she'd felt comfortable with before that instance was Eorlund Grey-Mane. He had been the one to advise her that all companions were independent equals, and that orders weren't given, necessarily. You just followed the guidance of the circle, specifically Kodlak—the eldest member of the Companions.

Isabela was desperate. After hearing the Companions described as wondrous warriors who carved out their own fame, glory, and destiny in the world, she'd been excited. Recent events had been scaring her. She was a tiny Breton, raised by her father in some unfathomable parts of the woods. She'd had a relatively average life, however. He gave her what she asked, producing any toy or trinket on call. As an adult, she wondered where he'd gotten his supplies when she hadn't seen a single city until she was fifteen years and on her own.

Yet she'd never held power. Nor any kind of special ability. As a Breton, she was small, lithe, and worked well with magic. These abilities had never made her "special", simply average. She was not the first, nor the last, with a natural ability in the arcane arts, or talent with a bow.

But she had crossed the wrong border. A wagon with prisoners had shot from a small alcove, apparently on its way to some unknown destination. She'd been ignorant to the law, but due to civil unrest, the borders of Skyrim were closed to outsiders…like her. She'd been shackled and sent on with the rest, assumed to be in league with a group called the Stormcloaks. If she knew what those were, she might have been able to confirm her innocence or her guilt. However, she stayed quiet and listened to the conversations of the guards instead, honestly terrified. She'd trapped many animals—trolls, bears, sabres, wolves. But never had she been the trapped animal. She was terrified.

The events that followed after were still a haze. She could recite them clearly—the haze wasn't from loss of memory. She could perfectly recall the dragon attack, the escape, the aid of the Jarl, the second dragon, the absorption of its soul. However, she had failed to process it all, and thinking back on it could be overwhelming.

So the free, weightless life of a Companion had called to her. She'd remembered helping them with a stray, angry giant just in front of the city of Whiterun. Their cold faces during battle had melted into a calm acceptance as Aela, who she hadn't known at the time, thanked her coolly and told her to come to Jorrvaskr to see if the Companion way was for her. She had agreed, planning to ignore the offer, but then hearing of them and their freedom had called to her like a starving wolf to fresh meat. Kodlak's instant liking of her spirit had been a wonderful relief.

Yet now was one of the small moments where she felt feeble and weak and wished she'd never gone to the Companions. Was all of this pain worth it? She'd done countless missions, passed dozens of tests, but their acceptance of her still showed very little. How much longer would it take to rise past the rank of a whelp? She understood why someone like, say, Torvar, still held such a title. He did nothing, only drank mead and helped in the largest, most fierce battles, where his presence was all but mandatory. Yet if a fellow Companion asked her to shine his boots, she'd do it to her fullest. How was it fair?

She had begun to wonder of Vilkas's influence in the group. Was his opinion as influential as Kodlak's? If so, she was doomed. She knew he distrusted her, though she was unsure of why. At first it had been a matter of proving herself, but she was sure she'd done that to a degree…so what drove his ongoing distaste for her? She'd assume it was racism, her being a Breton, but his twin felt none of that same hate. Isn't racism passed into families? So no, it couldn't be that. Farkas was one of the nicest to her so far. So she bit her tongue and continued doing his tasks.

This time around, it had been Frostbite spiders, deep in the heart of a cave in the mountains to the north east. She limped into the city, clutching a deep wound to her arm. Shards of iron stuck out oddly from the gash, making it a terribly grisly sight. To be honest, she usually preferred lighter armor, like leather or simple hide, but the amount of time she planned to spend in the snowy peaks had made her strap on an available set of heavy armor. Yet on her way back, the unthinkable had happened—a dragon had swooped in front of her. In that moment, she wished she'd called upon the housecarl assigned to her—Lydia—yet she never did, because she felt odd, being in complete charge of someone. And it was strange to her, that Lydia was willing to do anything Isabela asked with no questions. Was there any freedom, any glory, in her work? So Isabela allowed her to roam the streets of Whiterun, travel, sleep in her unused house. She would not have a slave.

But all of this aside, she was alone when the beast had set its eyes hungrily upon her. It shrieked, opening its jowls and shooting a frosty mist at her. It crackled all over her skin, burning her with its low temperature while also freezing her armor. It was much harder to move, and she just missed the wide, angry swing of his head. Frustrated, he shot into the air, hanging above her to shoot more of the mist before swooping away.

Isabela was not dumb, and she knew that this was a battle she was not going to win. The small dagger and simple long bow she'd grabbed would not be enough to take down the massive, wagon-sized monster in enough time. She would be dead twice over…if she was lucky.

It came and hung over her again, opening its mouth with the intention to shoot more of its spray. With a sudden jolt of speed, she grabbed her bow and notched an arrow. The mist slowed her as it crept over her already chilled skin, but she managed to shoot the arrow in its direction. She'd hoped to get inside its mouth, but the arrow nestled into a troublesome spot in its belly instead. Not even close to being deadly, but she knew it might be uncomfortable enough to buy her the time needed to flee.

However, the dragon became enraged, and it fell to the ground right in front of her. It sprayed a heavy, icy mist, covering her body in a layer of ice and snow. She was utterly paralyzed for three valuable seconds, and that's when it wrapped its jaws around her. It hadn't been close enough to get her fully into its mouth, but his tooth went straight through her left arm, cracking the iron armor and pushing the shards deep into her tissue. Pain radiated everywhere, and it swung her up into the air only by her arm.

Tears were falling from her eyes, blood from her wound, but she found enough clarity to realize that he was about to get a better, much more deadly grip on her. The dagger was suddenly in her hand, and she stabbed him through the cheek twice. With a shriek and a growl, he let her go, circling into the air and away. She knew he'd be back, but adrenaline and fear gushed into her blood and carried her toward Whiterun. It was about an hour walk away, but she didn't intend to stop sprinting until she arrived or collapsed. Whichever took place first.

The dragon shrieked at her as she ducked into a thicket of trees. No longer able to see her, it circled high above, surveying the land. She tried to avoid any clear patches, running under large pines with thick trunks. Finally, it seemed to set its sights on better prey. She heard it screaming in the distance, not fully gone, but distracted. Mammoths wailed somewhere far away.

Though this was a relief, Isabela dared not stop even once. Her intent was on Whiterun—if she could get into the walls, she could get to the temple. She wanted to go straight to Jorrvaskr, but she knew that the grateful Danica Pure-Spring would be much better suited to tend to her wounds, and she could be healed.

To distract herself on the run back, she'd contemplated if this would be it, if this would prove her dedication. She sure hoped so. "Open the gate!" was the shout that interrupted her thoughts.

The guards worked in unison to lower the bridge. Normally it was down, to allow merchants in and out, but Isabela could only assume her dragon friend had something to do with this extra precaution.

"By the nine," a guard commented at the sight of her. It was, admittedly, pretty terrible. Her carved up arm hung by mere ligaments next to her, flopping with each step like wet string. Blood dripped from the gash, trickling down her arm to drip off her limp fingertips. Lacerations swirled down the arm, chain mail dug deep into her flesh. Any untouched skin was red and inflamed, or a purplish bruise—from blood clotting or from frostbite, she didn't know. It made the guard wince.

She ignored him, and the others like him, making her way to the temple. It wasn't far now. She'd made it…but why was it on the other side of the city? Her heart was pumping much too fast, her body slowing its pace at an alarming rate. She still felt winded, as if she was sprinting, but she'd slowed to a crawl on the cobbled streets of Whiterun. Finally, it was a hopeless endeavor, and she fell to her knees on the ground. For a moment, she could stay that way, held upright. But a glance at the sky proved to be too much, sending her off balance. She collapsed onto the mauled arm, and bit back a scream. She hated to look so weak, but the pain was terrible.

It was fuzzy when the guards swarmed her. They immediately took her to the temple. It was warm inside, and the warmth bit into her chilled skin, but it felt good at the same time. She was left on a small stone bed, and she stared into the boards on the ceiling as hooded figures hovered over her. She only hoped she was not known enough by the townsfolk for word to spread to her shield-brothers and sisters. They couldn't know of this weakness from any source besides her.


	2. Chapter 2

_**New chapter! Sorry for the abrupt ending on the last one. I really need to work on that. But I think this one might be a smidge better. Who knows. Thanks for reading!**_

When she woke up next, the sun streamed into the small temple, casting odd colors onto the walls from the stained glass. It was a pretty sight, but alarming. Hadn't it been dark and stormy the past few days? Surely weather wouldn't change so suddenly and so drastically.

Isabela could only lay in wait for a healer. In the meantime, she swallowed repeatedly, hoping to coat her dry throat in saliva and quench some of the raging thirst. It worked, to a point. However, the thirst was forgotten when Danica appeared in her sight.

"Hello, friend," she said, smiling down at the small Breton that had retrieved Nettlebane and bravely taken sap from Eldergleam to save the town's own sacred tree. She was glad the girl's next mission hadn't been enough to kill her. She was also grateful for having such a strong sleep elixir on hand, which kept Isabela out cold while she delicately picked armor fragments out of her arm. "I see you're doing much better. Your blood is stemmed, your arm sewed. You will live. And you'll even get to keep it."

The relief was great. Isabela needed both of her hands for her bow, and for her magic. Should she be reduced to one, she'd rely only on a dagger. She supposed she could go to Athis for help with one-handed weapons, but she was still unsure of the Dunmer's like for her. Just like the rest of the Companions.

"And the Companions?" she asked. Her throat was dry, her voice deep.

Danica pursed her lips. "I wasn't aware that they were with you. How did they let you come to be in this state?"

Isabela shook her head slightly, so as to not disturb her arm. "They weren't. I mean, do they know where I am?"

"Oh, no, no. Not yet, anyway. I was waiting until you were awake to send for them," Danica explained. The Breton sighed in response. She wanted to refuse their arrival, keep this a secret for the time being, but her wound would take a day or two to heal, thanks to the vigorous health potions she was surely given, and in this time they would have to find out somehow.

"Okay," she replied. "You can call them now."

"As you wish." Danica left, presumably to find a lesser priestess to go to Jorrvaskr.

It didn't take very long before the Companions trickled in. The circle came in first—Farkas, Aela, Vilkas, Skjor, Kodlak. Ria came as well. The others were unseen, but present.

"Shield-sister! We were worried," Aela called from a safe distance away. The Breton offered a small smile in response, shifting her arm gently. Danica had sat her up to talk to her brethren, but she was too weak to hold herself upright without sliding to the left, onto her arm. It was painful.

"Yes. It has been a week from your expected arrival," Vilkas said.

"We feared the worst," his twin added.

"Do you feel okay?" asked Ria, genuinely. Isabela hadn't realized how nice she was. Most likely because most of her energy went toward impressing the circle. While she felt badly for ignoring her, it wasn't a large issue in her mind.

"What happened to you, whelp?" Skjor stepped forward, over the unseen boundary the group had created around her.

Unsure of how to broach the subject, she stayed silent for a moment, looking at the floor. Dragons were a nearly taboo topic among the citizens of Whiterun. She wasn't sure if her Companions felt the same.

"It was a bite," Danica answered for her. "From what, I'm not sure. I'd guess a sabre cat, but it was too deep of a wound."

"A dragon," Isabela interjected. "It was a dragon. It breathed frost."

The shocked, wide-eyed stares she received confirmed the absurdity of her statement. There had been two recorded dragon attacks—Helgen and the watch tower. So far, only the Jarl knew about her involvement with those. To the rest of the room, the chances of a dragon attacking Isabela, a little Breton rogue with nothing much to her name more than being a Thane, which she doubted they knew anyway, must have been too unlikely to seem believable. It was Danica who broke the silence, confirming it.

"That explains the frostbite…I knew it wasn't from natural cold, but not from any magic I've seen before. And the bite…a dragon…" The priestess was in utter awe. "Wow," was all she added before she left the room.

"A dragon, huh?" Vilkas asked. "You stood your ground…against a dragon?"

Isabela shook her head. Fleeing for one's life was hardly standing one's ground. "No, I was only able to get him three times before I had to run."

"That's more than most can say," Farkas said. She smiled as Aela agreed, still in awe. It was then that Isabela realized Kodlak was not present. She hoped he was okay, but she was unable to ask about him before Torvar began firing mad, half-drunken questions at her. She tried her best to answer them, but with the coming of dusk, she grew weary.

It was Aela who realized this and broke the group from their enraptured silence. "Let's take our leave—our shield-sister needs her rest." She turned to Isabela, "Danica said you should be walking around by tomorrow, and ready for battle the next day. We'll be on a hunt, however. You rest in Whiterun and take care of Jorrvaskr and Kodlak. Farkas will stay behind with you…in case. I assume he'll go to Jorrvaskr for the night. Danica asked for you to stay here, though."

Isabela felt as if she should protest, but she was done with speaking for the night. She wanted to accompany the companions on one of their legendary hunts. She had yet to get the chance to participate in one, and the urge to follow, to learn, to prove, it crashed down on her. But her arm continued to sting and throb, though dully beneath the haze of sleepiness, and she knew she couldn't. She did, however, feel badly for Farkas. Although he seemed unaffected by not being able to follow, there was no way an apt warrior like him wanted to miss out on such an opportunity, just because of a whelp like her.

He lingered behind as the rest of the group filed out of the room. Had she been fully alert, it may have been awkward. But instead she lolled her head in his direction and looked up at him. "I'll stay here with you, if you want me to," he offered. She couldn't tell if he was sincere or just being kind, but she was suddenly much more awake.

"You…you would do that?" she said, shocked. Farkas mistook her simple surprise as a yes, she wanted him to, and sat down on a wooden chair near her.

"You're my shield-sister. Being a companion is about more than standing with you in battle—it's about standing with you always. Even in these times." He offered a smile.

She returned it. However, although she was called a "shield-sister" repeatedly, she wasn't sure how loosely the term applied to her. Where did she rank in the minds of her fellows? She was technically a member, having passed the initial tests, but Skjor, Brill, and Vilkas all still looked down their noses at her. A whelp. She seemed to remain a whelp no matter what she did.

"Am I?"

This confused Farkas. "Are you…what?"

"A shield-sister? Am I a real…companion?" she asked, swallowing heavily afterward. She felt she could trust Farkas. He was kind, but not enough to be dishonest with her. If she was considered beneath him, he would tell her so. At least, she hoped he would.

"What? Of course. You have been since…well, when did you get here?" He scratched at his stubbly beard, and she laughed lightly in response, unsure if he was joking.

She shrugged. "I just wonder. I'm still called a whelp. But I work so hard to just become…another Companion."

Farkas shook his head. "You basically are. There's still one final test to take, though. Skjor was actually going to tell you about it when you returned, but…that didn't work out very well, did it?"

She shook her head, partially in disbelief and partially in excitement. She'd hoped to have earned their trust by now, but the knowledge that in mere days she could do so was exciting. She only wished she could do so sooner. "Do you know what he wants me to do?"

Farkas nodded. "Do you know about Ysgramor?"

As it happened, Vignar had gone on many long-winded rants about the ancient leader of the Companions. She nodded lazily. "Kodlak found another shard of his axe, Wuuthrad, at Dustman's Cairn, and we are to retrieve it."

Isabela accepted this. She was relieved, in fact. If this is all it would take, a simple trip to an ancient Nordic crypt…but there was one minor detail that she didn't understand.

"We?"

Farkas grinned wolfishly. "You and me, sister."

"Why?" she asked, realizing too late how rude she must have seemed.

He shrugged, his voice softening. "Someone from the circle must be present to see if you carry yourself honorably and represent the Companions well…but if you'd like, I can invite Vilkas in my place."

"No." She paused, the word sharp in the thick air of nightfall. "No, you'll be fine."

The smile returned to his face. "Alright. Just try not to get me killed."

"I can't make any guarantees," she warned playfully. However, her strength was leaving her. Her eyes were beginning to drift shut. The pillow at her side looked so splendid, and she was afraid she was going to fall asleep sitting up and tip backward. Farkas, however, seemed to realize her state and pushed her to the side gingerly, allowing her to plop softly on her pillow without moving the arm too much. In silence, he left. She didn't know where he was going, but she wasn't awake long enough to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Third chapter, up to bat. Isn't it great? Thanks to Birdy Main for commenting, and I must say that I'm doing the same thing. I threw away the witch's heads and haven't asked him for anything but our shop's earnings...because he's a better husband when he's got that sexy beast blood. ;) Anywho, here you go! Thanks for reading!  
_**

The next day was slow to pass. She didn't see Farkas while she spent time with Danica as the woman cast various healing spells on her. The wound was mostly healed, now a small laceration just centimeters in her skin—however, the amount of blood she had lost would take another day to replace itself, with the help of the potions. Until then, Danica said to stay in the city, but Isabela was free to go.

She originally didn't know what to do, so roamed near Jorrvaskr. She knew Farkas and Kodlak were inside, but she found herself turning around to go lick her wounds elsewhere. She wondered over to the preacher of Talos, bowed her head to the statue, and listened for a small amount of time. However, the man only seemed to repeat himself after a few minutes, so Isabela walked away once again. The Plains District was more entertaining, to say the least. She started in the alchemy shop, browsing the different potions, smelling the ingredients. She moved to the general store, but Belethor's biting sarcasm at her various questions finally drove her out. She glanced at the stalls, but the meat stall made her cringe—she doubted it remained as fresh as it was advertised to be when left out in the sun all afternoon—and she moved along to Warmaiden's.

Although she lived in Whiterun, she was rarely ever actually in the city, and even when she was, she could usually be found in Jorrvaskr. So it was no surprise that she didn't know the blacksmith woman, who turned out to be nice, though carried herself gruffly, more like a Nordic man than a woman. But Isabela related to men better than the usually fickle, picky, fearful women. Having grown up in isolation with her father, she knew of no other behavior than manly behavior. She was more accustomed to it, more comfortable. The woman set her to various tasks, recognizing her itch to do something. She'd have her make a few fairly simple things that didn't require both hands—a dagger, a hide helmet, some simple grindstone work. Isabela worked for the woman in a set rhythm until dark began to creep over the horizon. Tired, her employer sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow.

"It's been a long day of work, my friend. I'm afraid I have nothing left for you to do. You're someone who can get things done…I like that. Go get some rest, and visit me soon, yeah? Maybe buy a few things next time." She smiled, waved, and disappeared into the shop. The lock clicked, and Isabela gazed into the hot embers of the forge for a few more minutes before walking at a leisurely pace back to the temple. After checking with Danica to make sure she was allowed to leave, Isabela strolled to her home. Lydia seemed surprised to see her, and in such a state as well—armorless, weaponless, and bandaged.

"My thane?" she questioned, alarmed.

Isabela shrugged her away, "I'm fine. I just need to rest tonight."

"Would you like me to cook you something warm to eat?"

Again, the Breton shook her head. "No, no. I'm going to go and rest."

The housecarl retreated to her room once more, satisfied, and Isabela climbed the steps to her large bed slowly, crawling beneath the velvety fabric of her sheets. She laid back and reveled in the softness in comparison to the stone she'd been on the day prior. However, after a good hour's worth of tossing and turning, she realized that she couldn't sleep here—she never had. The bed was not used before, too soft and stuffy. She was aching for the worn, welcoming embrace of her chosen mattress back at Jorrvaskr. She hopped up and stealthily left her house, ducking through the city back to the Companion's home. She knew it was the only way she could get sleep that night.

She crept as silently as she could into the mead hall. The fire had died some, but still crackled warmly, invitingly. She surveyed the area and saw that both Kodlak and Farkas must have been asleep already. She made her way toward the living quarters.

"It's kinda late."

She yelped in response to the voice, swiveling and reaching for her hip, suddenly feeling naked with the lack of weapon to grab. She itched to reach behind her back for her bow and an arrow, but she knew they weren't there either. She created a loose fist and approached the speaker, although her groggy mind realized before seeing him that the voice had come from Farkas. "It is," she conceded.

"You can't sleep, then?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"Nope." She rounded the large pillar that had originally hidden him from her. He had a bottle of mead in his hand, and he gestured to the seat beside him, where another, unopened bottle sat in wait. She scurried into the seat, basking in the fire's glow, but did not touch the mead. She was not a drinker—she could only do so if challenged, and even then, she had a weak tolerance for the alcohol. She instead picked off a piece of a sweet-roll, popping it into her mouth and staring at the fire, like Farkas was. It was a few moments of silence before he turned to her.

"How goes the healing, sister?"

"I feel much better," she answered. "Should be healed by tomorrow. I can't wait…this is probably the longest I've gone without doing something exciting." She fidgeted, making her unrest clear to Farkas.

His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. She'd been in town for little more than a day. He'd always been considered the most combat-ready companion, his brother a close second, and it usually took him a week of home-sweet-home before he was twitchy like her. And it seemed unhealthy, at that—a day of rest was too much for her? How could she survive so long and so well? He knew the Companions had been battering her with tasks, but her rotation of employers had misguided him on just how often she was gone on a job. He just assumed she preferred to rest in her home rather than in Jorrvaskr. But now, as he stared at her in silence, he saw what he had missed before. While others, including himself, saw a strong, toned, lithe little frame, he could now identify the tired, weary slump she had. While people looked at her and saw a beautiful face and clear green eyes, he saw the darkness below them, the half-lidded, groggy gaze she had. And as he thought back on their previous encounters, he knew this wasn't the first time.

Farkas was not unkind, but he had no skill with words. He didn't have a large vocabulary to mold into lines of poetry, not like Vilkas or Kodlak. He just had what he thought and felt, and he went on that. Not mean, just brutally honest. "No wonder you look so terrible. You're working yourself too hard, sister."

Isabela was unable to take offense to that. Instead, she shrugged, picking at the glaze on the sweet-roll and licking it off her fingers. "I wouldn't doubt it. There's just…a lot to do."

"That's why there's more than one of us." With another swig of mead, Farkas hoped he had proved his point.

To him, Isabela knew, his statement had made perfect sense. To others, he would have been right—the other companions could deal with the bandits, and the spiders, and the vampires, and whatever other creatures roamed Skyrim. They may have even been able to take down a dragon, if they were all together and equipped properly. They were all strong, and fierce, and smart. But, Farkas didn't know the rest. He didn't know that she was much more exhausted mentally than physically. Physically, she could run for miles, could fight off hordes of bandits. But mentally, she was still scrambling to come to terms with everything Skyrim had thrown at her. A simple death sentence hadn't been enough. Now there were dragons, and magic, and these horrible responsibilities.

Early in her Companion career, she'd been able to ignore the call of the Greybeards to High Hrothgar. It wasn't even a thought in her mind. However, a recent trip to Dragonsreach, and an offhand comment from the Jarl, had her realizing that this wasn't the best course of action. _"Isabela! I hope the Greybeards are teaching you well…Gods know we need your help." _His warm smile as he said the words still tore at her. She hadn't even thought about the Greybeards. She was supposed to answer their call, pass their tests, and train with them…to save the world. That was her job, a duty she'd been born with, and she hadn't even thought about it. What terrible person did such a thing?

"I suppose you're right," she answered Farkas at last. She realized she'd dug a fair sized hole into the sweet-roll, so she simply brought the pastry to her mouth and took a large bite.

"'Course I am," Farkas said smugly, opening another bottle and taking a swig. "Only one who can out-think me is Vilkas…and Kodlak…and pretty much everyone else."

She laughed in response. However, it died away with a yawn. "I think I should get to bed."

Farkas just then remembered the mess in the whelp room. The last thing he wanted to do was drag her to Danica Pure-Spring in the middle of the night because she'd fallen and hurt herself in the dark. "My bed is more comfortable. Why don't you use that? I'm not gonna need it tonight." The moon was out, and Farkas had expected to be hunting at this hour. He had been drinking some mead to calm himself before taking a nice run, hoping to sate the restless beast inside him. He would not sleep tonight, but instead be on the prowl.

"I don't…"

"I insist," he said, cutting off her protest. She didn't have a very good response. And he was her superior…an order was an order, no matter how odd. She knew Jorrvaskr like the back of her hand, so she nodded to him and went downstairs. The furs on the bed felt wonderfully warm, and she couldn't stay awake much longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Fourth chapter! I'm feelin' pretty good at this point, guys! :D_**

**_To Birdy Main: Hehe, yeah, I bet it was a very nice bed, too. Too bad she didn't have her man with her!_****_ And I know what you mean about the store, but when I leave for a month and come back to 4,000 gold or so...well, he can be as unmanly as he wants as long as he rakes in that cash. :P  
_**

**_To xXx Tinkies xXx: Thanks so much for the support! You take care as well. :)_**

**_And as always, thanks for reading!  
_**

When she woke, it was to the clanking of armor in the room across from her own. A bit disoriented from the many healing potions she'd been taking in, she wobbled to her feet and stood, leaning against the wall and surveying her surroundings. She'd never been in Farkas's room before, at least not for long, and she'd been too tired the night before to really look around. It had a bar, many shelves, and a bed—simple. It reminded her of the very man it housed.

She followed the sound of the rustling to its source. The door was wide open, so she peeked in to see Vilkas kicking his discarded armor to the side of his room, near a weapon rack, and adjusting his grimy clothes before sitting down and making various notes in a journal. She left then, afraid he was going to undress completely. But her heart was a bit lighter, as Vilkas's presence meant that the hunt was over, and the rest of her companions were back in time for her to leave again. She made her way toward Aela's room until she remembered what Farkas had said—Skjor had wanted to talk to her. About a test. A final test.

Her heart was thudding in her chest, happily, and she walked with pride to the upper level of Jorrvaskr. She located Skjor, sitting on a bench and staring thoughtfully at the floor, sipping from a tankard. He was a rough man with too many scars to count and a deep, husky voice. A Nord, like most of the inner circle, he towered above the poor Breton when he stood at her appearance. "How's the arm?" he asked gruffly, but not insincerely.

"Ready for battle," she replied pointedly, moving it in its socket as proof. "Farkas told me that you wanted to see me," she added. He raised his eyebrows in response, but nodded nonetheless.

"I think you're ready to become a _real_ Companion. But first…you gotta prove your honor. A scholar located a fragment of Wuuthrad—you need to go and get it. Farkas will be your shield-brother on this one."

Already knowing most of this, but a little hurt that Skjor, unlike Farkas, didn't quite see her as a _real _Companion, she nodded solemnly and thanked him, assuring him that she would be back as soon as was possible.

She went to retrieve Farkas, but realized that he wasn't in his room, as that was where she'd just come from. Instead, he waited in a seat nearest to the door. "Have you talked to Skjor yet?"

"Yes," she replied. "Are you ready to go?" she asked, noticing that his polished armor and sharpened blade were already strapped onto his back. A small pack hung from his belt, and she heard the clink of potions inside, as well as another full of gold. He nodded, getting up and rolling back his shoulders in his armor.

"You?" he asked back. She, however, shook her head.

"Give me a second," she replied. Once again, she headed toward the living quarters, but realized that there was nothing there for her. Her armor and her blade had been too damaged for further use, either by the dragon's teeth or his frosty breath. Everything had cracked from the unbelievable cold in places that couldn't be fixed.

Unsure of what to do, she rounded back to Farkas. "My armor…it's all gone." She was more devastated by that than she thought she would be.

He nodded vaguely, before walking ahead to the staircase, muttering, "Follow me."

Intrigued, she followed his order. He began to speak as he led her back to his room. "Vilkas and I have been here for as long as I can remember. In that time we've had lots of armor, and had to replace most of it because we were growing. I think my teenage armor…" he turned, looking at her. "Maybe my child armor will work best for you," he said, rethinking her size. Being a Breton, she was ridiculously small in comparison to her Nordic companion. Being oddly small, even for a Breton, she barely reached his chest on her tiptoes. She had to admit that the height difference was frustrating, but in battle could prove somewhat of an advantage. Not only was she faster and more lithe than most, but they also showed her an underestimation that often proved fatal.

In his room, he bent over a chest and rifled through it. Everything in there was heavy, mostly skyforge steel, and he grabbed a breastplate that looked roughly her size. "Eorlund can fix up the…uh…chest area for you," he said hesitantly, avoiding her gaze as he handed her the armor. Soon he found her boots and gauntlets as well. Although Farkas was an armor enthusiast, and had even offered to teach her a few things, he didn't ever carry a helmet. He'd told her before that he wanted to "keep his eyes on the prey", and a helmet only blocked his vision.

"Aela has too many bows for her to use, and almost every kind of arrow," he said. "I'll find you a nice sword while you go to her for that."

As she returned with a smaller hunting bow—seething a little bit about the fact that not only was she borrowing things from everyone else, but they all had to be smaller in order to accommodate her, Farkas met her halfway with a sword. The hilt was a little longer than she was used to, but it worked.

She retrieved her gold and her own stock of potions, as well as a few herbs in case there was a chance to do some quick alchemy. She wasn't the best at it, but her mediocre potions had saved her hide once or twice. Eorlund took mere minutes to expertly pound small dents into the armor for her breasts, as well as accommodate it to fit to her smaller shoulders and thinner waist. Not even an hour later, it was cooled and ready for use. With the gear strapped on and bow in her hand, she braided her hair away from her face and nodded to Farkas. At last, she was going to leave this place behind.

"I'll lead us to Dustman's Cairn. But after that, you take the reins," he instructed her as they made their way out of the city. For a moment, she thought about getting horses, but her legs itched to walk, and Farkas didn't seem to mind the extra time it would take. They knew the shard wasn't going anywhere.

"No problem," she responded. Vilkas had mumbled something on their way out, giving her a glare. She hadn't heard it very well, but after a few minutes of mulling it over, she had realized he'd said something about not getting Farkas killed. The thought that her leadership could end the life of another didn't sit very well with Isabela. Risking her own life on her own stupidity was one thing—having another person, no matter how skilled or strong, staking theirs on her judgment was completely foreign and rather unwelcomed. She'd assumed it would be her and Farkas, an even team, making their way through and battling their way to the shard. Now, however, it seemed more like he was going to take a relaxed role and do what she said…what if she said wrong? The thought of returning alone and empty handed with news of a brother's death was much too unsettling for her.

"You know," she began, but she couldn't finish, because she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. Something along the lines of _"I wish you weren't here so I can be as stupid as I want to and not feel guilty for putting you in danger."_ But that wouldn't go over very well, she had a feeling.

"Yes?" her companion turned to her.

She noticed then, as she had before, how similar Farkas looked to his twin. She thought of Vilkas's usual scowl deepening into hatred as he charged at her with his gigantic axe, ready to take her head off faster than an executioner as repayment for his brother's death. The Breton felt even smaller now, her heart sitting uncomfortably in her stomach.

"You know…Vilkas would kill me if anything happened to you."

Farkas laughed. "No worries, tiny sister. I'll be fine."

This didn't ease any of her worries, only upset her, because confidence was a swift killer indeed. She looked away from him and grumbled unintelligibly. However, she'd learned that if there was something she couldn't change, she would simply put it aside and look toward her current objective.

"So, after this, I'm truly a companion?"

Her partner nodded. "We already consider you one, with how dedicated you've been, but this is a formality we've all had to go through. It's a matter of the title and the ritual."

"That's reasonable," she said quietly, watching the terrain around her. The hill they'd been climbing was beginning to slope upward quickly, requiring her to lengthen her stride to stay balanced. She was worried that if it got any steeper, she'd have to use her hands to keep her leverage and not topple backward.

It was silent as they reached the tip of the peak. She meant to take another step, but saw that the hill quickly turned into a sheer cliff. Jagged ledges were further down, but she was much too short to jump to the nearest one without hurting herself. This cliff went off in both directions, and the sun was already beginning to set. They would lose a day if they attempted to go around it, as continuing on at night might irritate a camp of nearby giants that had already given them looks of warning. Desperate, she looked to Farkas.

He gazed down at the nearest ledge. "I can make that jump," he said confidently. It didn't need to be said aloud that she couldn't. He sheathed his sword and brushed back his hair, crouching down and lightly stepping off the ledge. With a small, light thud, he hit the rock and stood up with ease. He turned and looked up at her, forty or so feet below. He stretched his arms out.

"Jump!" he instructed. "I've got you," he reassured her at the look she gave him. Isabela was not a fan of heights. Jumping into the arms of Farkas—although she trusted him—from the edge of a cliff didn't seem appealing in the slightest. She hesitantly took a step backward.

"Just step off. I'll catch you," he coaxed her. She was glad now more than ever that Farkas had been assigned to her. Aela wouldn't have been able to catch her, and Vilkas wouldn't have had the patience to wait as she mustered her strength.

"Okay…" she swallowed nervously, before finally remembering that she was a warrior—a dragonborn. In fact, it was but two days ago that she stared a dragon in the eyes and walked away alive. Not many could say that. A small cliff was not about to conquer her.

She held her breath as she fell.

The landing was relatively easy. Her armor clanked against his roughly, but he absorbed most of the shock. Lightly, he set her on her feet and grinned down at her. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She smiled in return, shaking her head. Her heart was still beating in her throat, adrenaline pumping in her veins, but she wasn't going to tell him that. The crypt was in view now, a dome that was almost completely buried in the earth, and it took them no time at all to get to it. A rounded staircase led to the entrance. In a lone chest was an extra potion of health, which she handed to Farkas, remembering Vilkas's warning.

And then, no more distractions left, the door awaited her. Farkas nodded reassuringly, and she stepped slowly forward. This was it.


End file.
